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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26187919">Prodigals Confessing All</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo'>theblindtorpedo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tintin - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Character Development, Class Differences, Developing Relationship, Drama, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Sex Worker AU, Slow Burn, Tintin still has his agency, minor hurt/comfort and mystery, no exploitative drama only EMOTIONAL drama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:29:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26187919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Archibald Haddock, Captain-on-hiatus and begrudging Master of Marlinspike Hall, finds little benefit in his newfound position as a member of the elite. The food is too rich, the clothes are too stifling, and the company incomprehensible. Until one night at an upscale gentlemen's club an enchanting dancer called the Belgian Phoenix catches his eye. Haddock is still a slave to indulgence and Tintin, like any sensible man, won't turn down a good time.</p><p>An unlikely friendship develops and a romance simmers, but there are disparate  expectations and assumptions to reconcile before they meet their happy ending.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Archibald Haddock/Tintin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The news of his grandfather’s passing sat like an anchor in his stomach, cold and heavy. Haddock was notorious for his emotionality and yet, standing in his dingy flat reviewing the attorney’s letter, there was no storm of emotion tossed up within him. The funeral was solemn and consisted mainly of his family’s local associates as the scattered relatives across the globe, who had taken new surnames, were too distant or uninterested to attend to the estate. <em> Last of the Haddocks indeed </em>, he thought as the casket was lowered into the muddy ground. When the thunderclouds rolled in that morning he knew what he should have done, should have delayed the funeral for the sake of the few attendees comfort, but the part of him that yearned for it to be over pressed forward. So, in an act of selfishness, he made the crowd and the priest cower under umbrellas as the sky emptied its stomach upon the dour display. He was glad his grandfather was dead, but at least Haddock was dutiful in engineering his own misery. It was what the old man would have wanted.</p><p>The dragon had hoarded the family’s wealth, wrapping himself in a cocoon of visible expense he hoped would protect him from the scorn of society, especially after his only daughter found herself pregnant without a ring on her finger. He had tossed her out then, told her if she wished to make a fool of herself she would do it on her own dime, and Miss Haddock was left to raise her son in Southhampton, making small work in the pubs that catered to visiting sailors. His grandfather had sent letters that his mother always snatched from his hands. She read them in private, answered his questions with laconic dismissal, and they met with the fireplace before Haddock could divine their contents. As soon as he was of age Haddock had taken to sea, and his grandfather had not contacted him since, not even replied to the few letters Haddock sent when the old filial guilt reared up inside. As much as he hated his grandfather he also hated to imagine him trapped in a cage of his own wretchedness. It must be lonely, Haddock had thought. But as much as the Young Haddock gave his grandfather the benefit of occasional sympathy it was clear the Old Haddock had no such inclinations.</p><p>So it surprised Haddock to find himself the sole benefactor of his grandfather’s will. Even to the end, it appeared the Old Haddock had revered their bloodline to an extent that he could not bear the inheritance falling into the hands of anyone else. Within a week Haddock had it all: status as a recognized descendant of the great Sir Francis Haddock, a small fortune, Marlinspike Hall, enough to last him into old age with a servant or two. He had decided long ago it was not the life for him, a mindset he still had trouble shaking, but a benign curiosity still sat in his breast. So like a limping dog Archibald Haddock entered Society.</p><p>Which is how he finds himself at an upscale gentlemen’s club squeezed uncomfortably between an effervescent Jolyon Wagg and another man whose name he had been given, but it is too far into the night to ask for it to be repeated.</p><p>“And I says to myself, Jolyon old boy, of all the joints in town to bring your new friend Haddock this one’s the ticket if only to see the Belgian Phoenix dance! What a treat!”</p><p>“Er- the what?”</p><p>“They’re a dual act. Come on every night: The Blue Lotus and the Belgian Phoenix. Look!”</p><p>The boy is Chinese, clad in a light blue robe that shimmers with silver accents, and an elegant lotus flower emblazoned on his chest. His movements are fluid, as if he were weightless swimming through the curtains of silk, effortless and elegant. His performance brings the boisterous crowd to a reverential lull that Haddock is grateful for. The flutes and woodwinds dominate the music. Even with a whole stage at his disposal the boy transforms the experience into a shockingly intimate event, as if you were a traveler who wandered in upon a dance that was meant only for the moon, but his dark eyes glow with inchoate affection.</p><p>Then there is a soaring of strings and the stage is bathed in fiery orange, the crowd gasps, and a new dancer leaps across the stage landing sure footed and strong. Clad only in brown pants and a simple yellow shirt, he is still young, but clearly older in the way he holds himself, the radiant smile he fixes the audience with overflows with playful confidence. While the Blue Lotus danced like he harnessed the air around him, the Belgian Phoenix is all intentional physicality, each move sure and sharp, emphasizing the obvious strength and control in his thin body. He twists and cavorts, somersaults and runs, all acrobatic flare. The Blue Lotus is an accessory to the Belgian Phoenix's showmanship, a planet revolving around a resplendent Sun.</p><p>Haddock is rapt. When the piece ends the two boys hold hands, bow, and, to Haddock’s abasement, there is a catching of eyes that cannot be explained by coincidence. He is caught like a fish on a line and the boy even has the audacity to wink. Haddock finishes his glass of wine.</p><p>“Marvelous stuff! Don’t you agree old chap?” </p><p>“Quite,” Haddock mutters. He cannot attribute the clamor of applause to the pounding in his chest. After the dinner and show the gentlemen spill out of the doors like dandelion wisps onto the wind. Jolyon’s voice flits from ear to ear, never landing long enough to impart meaning, and Haddock quickly takes his leave. On the ride back home the darkened window reflects a vision of golden-red hair and a dazzling smile.</p>
<hr/><p>Haddock’s patience for the social elements of aristocracy wanes as quickly as the moon. Haddock gave it his best shot, but soon all telephone and mail invites alike are patiently rejected by Nestor. Jolyon knows where he lives, of course, and does not seem to take Haddock’s evasions as a personal rejection, instead taking up the infuriating habit of arriving unannounced to inject himself into a tea time or dinner ritual. Haddock does begrudingly respect his tenacity, for Jolyon seeks his company long Haddock has thrown off  the riding gear and monocles and cravats in favor of simple suits and his comfortable old sweater.</p><p>Haddock still goes to the gentlemen’s club at least once a week. The staff have learned his name there, the bartender catching him in his sights, and already pouring a whisky as he takes a seat. The bartender’s name is Philippe. Haddock considers it a sensible name, which he reasons is why he takes the next words to heart.</p><p>“You should go see him,” Philippe says after a month. “I hear he’s looking for new friends.”</p><p>Haddock is not quite sure what the word means here on land. He orders another whiskey, letting the fire of the drink stir up his courage, imbibing perhaps more than he should on his rocky road to, if not sobriety, moderation. After he has tipped Philippe handsomely he makes his way to the backrooms.</p><p>“Where is . . . where is the room for the Belgian Phoenix?” he asks, and it sounds so silly, the stage name clunky on his tongue slurred with drink. The guards stare him up and down, scoff at his undeniably flustered face, but then eyes alight on the gold cufflinks and the cut of his suit jacket (Haddock dresses the part when need be) and he is ushered down a hallway, pointed to a nondescript door at the end of a hallway lit with orange light. He knocks, too self conscious to try the lock.</p><p>“Come in,” comes the voice and, oh he thought he knew what that voice would sound like, the rounded, soft accent and yet truly hearing it is a whole other beast. Haddock is aware he is standing on a precipice, about to launch himself into something he is not prepared for, but he was always known for his recklessness.</p><p>He turns the knob. The room is awash in a floral scent that brings forth the impression of some secret garden. There are newspapers in multiple languages tacked up on the wall, clearly the occupant has an interest in foreign events, and the floor is cluttered with statues, paintings, and vases whose designs Haddock discerns span the world’s continents, a unique sight in a dancer’s dressing room. The Belgian Phoenix must have generous admirers. He yelps as a small dog bounds towards him, sniffs at his heels, but does not impede Haddocks’ progression inward. After the dog, his attention is caught by the clear centerpiece. The boy sits against the back wall, in front of a desk topped by a wide mirror. Unlike a common showgirl he is not concerned with removing any cosmetics, hands are occupied not with brushes, but resting on top of a typewriters key's. The boy is clad in a burgundy robe that matches louche wallpaper, luminous velvet wrapped in a style that accentuates the angles of his body and whispers hints of what lies beneath. Haddock glimpses a flash of pale thigh before the boy stands.</p><p>“Can I help you, monsieur?”</p><p>“I’m a Captain. In the merchant marines,” he says. He has an impulse to impress the boy with his station and at the same time prove he is not one of the louts carousing over steaks in the dining room. “Philippe said you were looking for friends.” He never was good at lying, so it was better to tell the truth, without framing it as something shameful. He throws on a smile he hopes comes across as roguish and confident, that says the boy should be honored at his calling.</p><p>“Did he now. Next he’ll be bothering me for a cut.” The boy clucks his teeth. “Everyone knows I can find my own friends. But you did come all the way and you seem like a nice fellow. Give me a moment to change.”</p><p>The boy drops the robe with all the shamelessness of a child, and Haddock can’t contain the choked gasp that erupts out of him. He is not a stranger to the nakedness of others, on a ship you could see your crew mates in all states of undress, but the boldness still alarms in its unexpectedness. It is one thing to see bare flesh in cramped bathing quarters and bunks that roll with a ship wrapped in nature’s grasp and another for it to be presented among the plethora of art, as if the human form stands equal to man’s civilized accomplishments. Haddock drops his head, shame lurks above, cajoling him to succumb to temptation. To occupy himself he pats the dog, who barks in excitement at the attention.</p><p>“His name is Snowy and he comes everywhere with me,” the voice outside Haddock’s vision says like a herald announcing the certainty of the sunrise. “Do you mind him coming with us?”</p><p>“Should I?”</p><p>“Some people don’t care much for Snowy. But they never end up being frequent friends of mine.” Then Haddock feels his face lifted by youthful hands and sees the velvet robe has been replaced by a suit of tawny brown, white shirt, and a pink tie.</p><p>“Can’t even look? Oh, what a gentleman!” the boy exclaims. “What are you looking for? A late night drink, a kiss, a private dance, more? Or tell me how much you have to spend and I’ll let you know what it’ll get you.” A tantalizing hand, surprisingly calloused, slides to the Haddock’s neck and twists playfully in the dark tufts at his nape, while the other hand drags down to press against his chest, warm and suggestive. Haddock’s focus flounders like a broken sail. He does not look the boy in the eyes although he can feel the expectant gaze on him. Philippe had read him correctly and in an old life he had not been above paying a lithe young man for a fun tumble, but the thought had not even crossed Haddock’s mind before this moment.</p><p>“H-how much?” Haddock stammers, “I d-don’t know w-what I’m asking for. I didn’t r-realize you were-”</p><p>They are so close now the boy catches wind of the heady odor of whisky and his nose twitches in mild disgust. The boy removes his hands and Haddock instinctively lurches forward, chasing the feeling of those fingers that recede to the boy’s pockets. “Monsieur, your breath and speech tell me you’ve had more to drink than I thought. You must be new. I apologize, but I do not entertain drunkards. Come back tomorrow.” His voice is stern and his sharp turn even more defiant. He collects a suitcase and beckons for the dog, before gliding past Haddock. The gutted sense of loss reminds Haddock why he suffers the ignominy of his desires.</p><p>That night in bed he hangs on the thought of the boy whose name he does not know and the disastrous first impression he had given. What else could the boy have expected, an adult man, appearing unprompted to ask for his companionship? What had Haddock thought he was doing? Yet, even when all signs had pointed to one outcome, he had still been disarmed by the proposition of having the boy, enough that his confusion had been great enough to act as evidence of excessive inebriation. The boy had been correct: he had certainly drank too much, but what else was he to do when confronted with this yearning to be near him, in any form chaste or otherwise? No, he had to be better.</p><p>Next time he would have a plan.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next day, he heads to the dressing room straight after the performance, not to be intercepted by another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Snowy,” he greets and the boy’s face lights up at the sight of his gruff and awkward visitor rubbing the belly of his dear dog. Haddock is grateful the dog has taken to him, for he has a sneaking suspicion it would be harder to enter the boy’s good graces otherwise. The object of his truest affection had not dawdled this time in dressing. By the time Haddock arrives his hair is perfectly coiffed and suit pressed, looking every inch the careless, young bon vivant who would not be out of place reclining on a university lawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will you have tonight, monsieur?” the boy asks, hands folded in his lap and ankles crossed. Haddock feels rather like he is on the spotlight end of an interview.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a name you know. Archibald Haddock. Although no one really calls me Archibald these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you prefer, Captain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh . . . you remembered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I remember a lot of things. I’m a quick learner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What should I call you? Can’t keep calling you the Belgian Phoenix, fun name and all, but hardly someone you can ask the phone operator for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy laughs at that. “You can call me Tintin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tintin.” He tests the syllables on his tongue. It is unfamiliar, designed to be removed from any identity, any associations. Haddock is aware that ‘Tintin’ is perhaps no less a disguise than the Belgian Phoenix, and yet it is so simple, so obvious that the boy, no Tintin, could not be called anything else. The name tastes like a new wine, digesting it makes one heady with anticipation even before any pleasure can set in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you had supper yet, Tintin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A small one early on, but I’m sure you can offer me something eye-opening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haddock’s chest swells. Sometimes money is a blessing. It makes things easier. “That I can!” he announces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haddock has found the access to a higher caliber of food to be the most favorable aspect of his wealth, although he still took umbrage with how the more one paid the less food one got. This contention had formed the basis of a tirade that delighted Jolyon in its intensity. However, there were establishments in Brussels that catered to Haddock’s desire for quantity alongside quality and he held the knowledge of their existence close to his heart like a treasure map.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The restaurant Haddock chooses is dark, lit only by wall hanging fish-oil lamps and candles on the varnished wood tables. The majority of the occupants had completed their meals, leaning back in their chairs, engulfed in the smoke of cigars and swirling the ice in their tumblers full of amber liquid. Haddock nods at several men he recognizes, but does not know by name, their relationship placated upon the comradery inherent in shared experiences. He leads Tintin to a corner, pulls a chair out for the boy, who crosses his legs with a daintiness that does not match how he leans his whole forearm on the table, eyes twinkling with curiosity. Haddock pushes the menu towards him, but Tintin ignores it in favor of running fingers across Haddock’s knuckles. Haddock lets out a grunt, a warning that Tintin reads well enough to withdraw and takes to considering the menu.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old are you?” Haddock asks. The question is suddenly very pressing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nineteen, but I’ve been at the club for a few years now. I used to work on a cruise ship, but then I met Chang, that’s my friend, the Blue Lotus. He’s not the travelling type so we decided to settle down here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did your parents work on the ship?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re orphans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that why you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tintin interrupts with a frustrated sigh. “Yes, Captain, I have no one else to support me or Chang, so that is why I sell myself to men. Does that pique your interest? Do you like damsels in distress? I didn’t take you for the type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know me at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know me either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s why we’re here isn’t it?” Haddock pleads. Tintin is an enigma. He’s giving enough to not be arrested for aloofness, but everything he does, everything he says is packed in neat, prepared parcels. It isn’t what Haddock wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you like reading the newspaper,” he diverts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tintin's shoulders lose their tension. “I’ve been collecting for years. I work part time at Le Vingtieme Siecle, do you read it?” Haddock shakes his head. “It’s for the best you don’t, but the pay isn’t bad. I cover mostly straightforward local news. I don’t have as much time as I’d like.” Tintin’s tone becomes wistful. “I’d like to be an investigative reporter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Investigating what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything. A good reporter doesn’t manufacture his own stories. He follows the trails, solves the puzzles, but the facts, the seeds of the matter, he lets them come to him and he documents them to the best of his ability.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you think you’ve got the head for it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know i have the head for it. I’ve been told I’m very intelligent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haddock rubs his beard in appraisal. “Prove it,” he grins, then clicks the latch on a drawer underneath the table and pulls out a chessboard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A competitive fire alights in Tintin’s eyes. “Gladly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The food comes and goes. Haddock forgoes another drink, but Tintin has a glass of wine which makes him bubbly and forthcoming. Haddock learns that Tintin truly does have homosexual learnings, Haddock confirms that Tintin and Chang are friends and not more, Haddock expresses his distaste for cruise ships to Tintin’s amusement, and Haddock beats Tintin twice by a hair’s edge which makes Tintin’s face contort in petulance that might be unattractive if Haddock didn’t feel relief to see the boy was not in complete control of his feelings. Haddock thinks it is a good first start. He enjoys whittling away Tintin’s defenses; it is the most engaging conversation he has had in months. When the bill comes Haddock takes it on assumption and Tintin does not bat an eyelash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they are standing on the curb, shoulder to shoulder, Haddock is satisfied with the night.  “Let me call you a cab. Where do you live?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t do business at my place of residence.” Haddock hopes the darkness hides the flush of embarrassment that must be flooding his face. The night replays in his mind, reframed in stark distance; he wonders if the whole time Tintin had been calculating and weighing his responses to be appealing. It had felt natural, but perhaps the chess game and the conversation were just an obstacle course for Tintin, something not to be enjoyed, but to be tolerated in order to reach his goal. The thought sickens him. If Tintin had been acting he ought to win an award for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ididotic of me to presume. Don’t think of it. I best be getting back to Marlinspike. Here.” His speech is a stilted staccato, as he shoves a series of bills into Tintin’s hand. “That should be enough for you to get home. I’ll be on my way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t intend to take me home with you?” Tintin is incredulous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you take me for, but I’m not some lecherous lout only out to defile you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, maybe that’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> you are, but it’s not such a bad thing to be in the first place. Besides I don’t mind being defiled.” Tintin presses a kiss to his mouth that starts tender and innocent before devolving with alarming speed. Haddock startles when a nimble tongue slips across his bottom lip, questing and entreating. The boy is very good at advertising his wares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although the body sings his mind cannot sink far enough down to allow him to savor it. It wouldn’t be right. If this is all Tintin wants, to give him pleasure and to take from his purse, he is in danger. Haddock is reassured that Tintin had been genuine before, but only because he can now see the other side of the coin, Tintin when he is intellectually intrigued and relaxed versus Tintin when he is suggestive and seductive in a way that is false like the images on a flat movie screen. It sounds like Tintin and looks like Tintin, but it is not him, and it is not how Haddock wants him. So he pulls away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he performs his nightly ablutions he hears the echoes of Tintin’s laugh ringing with the  urgency of a Sunday morning church bell. Marlinspike never felt hollow before, he and Nestor enough, but now the halls are lacking.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Haddock has enjoyed the turning of the seasons, before it had been rare that he stayed on land long enough to witness nature’s transformations. He watches people as well, reading a book or newspaper at the village cafes, observing how the streetfolk vary over the course of the year. In summer children whoop and run in energetic ecstasy, in autumn the students walk hand in gloved hand encased in wool and young romance, in winter the families bustle about arms laden with shopping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a strange man who arrives in early spring, sun hat and waistcoat as vivid as a sunflower, and facial hair of a goat. Haddock had pegged him as an intruder, strode forward spitting threats, but words did not stick to their target, slipping like water off a duck’s back. The man was clearly hard of hearing and after much confused sputtering on Haddock’s part he had been able to learn that this man, a Professor Cuthbert Calculus, was a local aeronaut who tended to Marlinspike’s gardens in return for use of the old carriage stable as a laboratory and the meadow as a launch area for his ballooning. That at least explained the terrible explosions  he’d started to hear in the past week. Calculus had been in Syldavia for prolonged sabbatical and had missed the Old Haddock’s death, but he didn't seem to think the passing of the torch should impede his scientific and horticultural arrangement. He was especially peeved that the Old Haddock had not hired a temporary caretaker in his absence and his displeasure at the state of the rose bushes especially was so adamant that Haddock had been overcome with shame and purchased a set of new gardening equipment in apology. Nestor had fixed Haddock with a well-deserved withering look as he struggled to balance the lot in his arms after the shopping trip. The competent butler had, of course, recommended a groundskeeper be hired upon Haddock’s reclamation of the house and had been ignored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By March it had been a year since his grandfather’s funeral, three months since he first saw Tintin, and on two since he had started taking the young man on regular outings.They have dinner, go for walks, play chess, or even attend shows,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tintin gives Haddock insight into the secrets behind the performances. Sometimes Haddock does not understand what Tintin means when he expounds on the training methods needed for this and that physical stunt or the artistry required to paint certain aspects of a set, but he is impressed by the breath of Tintin’s knowledge. He secures tickets to plays, cabarets, films. Tintin scrutinizes and scribbles notes to type up into freelance reviews.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not normally one for this type of entertainment,” Tintin says, “But it is less dull when you have company.” Haddock suspects he does not refer to the act of sitting side by side in darkness, but to Haddock’s guaranteed post-show opinionated diatribes. Tintin smiles and nods and always knows the right interjection to inspire Haddock to a new rhetorical avenue. With the prospect of Tintin by his side every experience seemed alluring. Once, the posters for the Milanese Nightingale had even enticed them to the opera, an atrocious affair that left both of them dramatically bemoaning the decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blistering barnacles, that was terrible!” Haddock proclaims. “The tenor was bad as a choleric chimpanzee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mistaken. The fault was with the ensemble. They were as bad as an array of acrimonious archdeacons,“ Tintin pitches his voice to imitate Haddock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, the true terror was that soprano. Listening to her singing was as bad as being in on the wrong end of a rampaging rhinoceros! That is to say: the front end!“ The tickets had not been wasted as they entertained themselves with performative disgust. Haddock jumps up on the edge of the fountain and does his best impression of Signora Castafiore, to the consternation of the late night park-goers, one of whom throws a bottle at him that sends him falling into the water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scoundrels! Semioticians! Sporozoa!“ he howls and waves his arms to emphasize his distress, sending splashes of water cavorting into the air. Tintin does not look terribly concerned. In fact, he looked downright chuffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I like the sound of you now a fair deal more than when you were singing opera. Who can blame your attacker? My dear Captain look, you've gone and made a fool of yourself again.” The fondness in Tintin’s voice turns Haddock’s anger to bashfulness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the fool for taking up with this old sea dog,” he grumbles good naturedly as he climbs out of the fountain. Nestor will be terribly disappointed at the state of his clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honest fools are better than a double-dealing sage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now you’re starting to sound like Chang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tintin’s young friend never accompanied them, but Haddock had made his acquaintance. He was confident as Tintin, although he traded in boldness for reserve, which Haddock suspected was a result of being far from his place of origin, rather than a timid personality. Although Snowy usually trots at their heels wherever they go, sometimes Tintin bids the dog follow Chang as he meets with his own series of clients, and an unknown paternal worry rears within Haddock. He practices his threatening stares upon them so that they grip Chang’s wrist and hurry off as if the speed and delicacy with which they sate their lust can save them from a sailor’s wrath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haddock knows these men come for Tintin as well. Late at night when he takes himself in hand he visualizes athletic legs parting, hears a symphony of whimpers, cries, and pleas, but his imagination pales in comparison to reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tintin is bent almost completely back, calves bracketing the head of the unknown man who viciously shoves into him. The two are sprawled on the rug of the dressing room, still half clothed, but lost in passion enough that the man has his eyes squeezed shut with exertion. He does not notice Haddock. Unfortunately, Tintin does, moans catching and eyes blown out with arousal and shock. Haddock slams the door shut. He hears baritone of confusion from inside the room and Tintin’s voice soothing until it has fallen back to muffled sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haddock considers leaving, but he knows no matter how he runs the image will follow him like a spectre that can only be exorcised by one person. Instead he waits outside and smokes his pipe. When Tintin arrives he is still slightly flushed. Haddock notices the scent of soap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you wouldn’t appreciate it if I still smelled like him,” Tintin explains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was he good?” Haddock asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good enough.” Tintin replies. “I would have preferred a hotel room. I’ve got the most awful rug burn on my back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dangerous trade you got there, laddie,” Haddock jokes. He hopes levity can soothe the jealousy that turns his gut into a writhing nest of vipers. It is a dirty thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can be.” A darkness falls upon Tintin’s face. “I’ve learned many forms of self defense.” Haddock’s nausea vaporizes into a piercing bright anger that courses through his veins like lightning. He clenches the pipe in his teeth hard enough he’s sure it will leave marks. His hands and face are boiling, overbearing energy that he tries to release by furling and unfurling his fists repeatedly. Tintin takes one and places it upon his own cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry I have not had to use them often. I’m sure you have plenty more to teach me about danger, Captain. Tell me about the time you were lost in the Arctic islands.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>what is this, plot? also they have sex in this one!!!! but as it’s ME it's Emotional sex of course :3c</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He tries not to fixate. Truly he does. Still the visions that percolate in his brain leave him restless; he paces throughout the house, eroding the carpets into crop circles. Perhaps if Tintin had been more specific Haddock’s fears could be put to rest. Then he could be confident in the boy’s self-defense skills if he had the scene set for him, from Tintin’s own mouth, told with swagger and nonchalance. It would be a story of Tintin properly walloping a man about the head, a man who had dared push too far, and what a riot to think he could overpower The Belgian Phoenix! Haddock wants to believe this is the reality, but without any evidence and only hope, he is helpless to keep his imaginings from swinging to the opposite pole. The brief moment he bore witness to Tintin in the throes of passion begins the nightmare, except this time the man’s hands surround Tintin’s throat, digging too deeply. Tintin’s eyes would go wide and he’d flail, try and fight back. <em> How could he? </em> Haddock thinks. <em> He is too small, too slight </em>. The man would press down harder, and Tintin’s eyes would go blank, body slacken as the man abused him for pleasure. The man wouldn’t kill him, but he’d empty himself and leave, and Tintin would wake surrounded by bruises and banknotes. Tintin would count the money with the hollow knowledge that for that  sum he would willingly suffer such iniquities again.</p><p>Haddock hates how his mind reduces Tintin to a victim, and worse still, he knows Tintin would hate him for it, as fiercely independent as he is. Haddock can understand that: the urge to prove oneself. Years of being a fumbling youth struggling to pull his weight among crews of full grown men had ingrained the same urge within him. He wants to believe Tintin. He wants to know his nightmares aren’t real. </p><p>So that night he resolves he will not confront Tintin. Instead he plans to perform necessary acts of reconnaissance. The guilt that gnaws at him is reassured that he must do this for his own peace of mind, so that he will not devolve his feelings for Tintin into that most detestable pity. Tonight the stranger Tintin leaves with is dark, with mischievous eyes and a broad mustache. He learns forward to Tintin’s ear as if he were to impart a secret, but the stranger’s voice is brash and shamelessly loud so that Haddock can still hear the boasts of the man’s conquests in love and war (although often the man conflates the two), all in the gravelly Spanish accent. Tintin seems immune to the irrefutable assault on his eardrums for he laughs behind his hand. When they enter the car, Haddock hails a cab, and orders the driver to follow, his heart thudding in his chest.</p><p>The hotel is simple, neither ostentatious nor decrepit, perfectly average and practical. Haddock hugs the wall and is grateful the lobby is small enough he need not enter to hear the receptionist say “Room for Mr. Ramon Zarate, here you are, third floor, room eight.” The Spanish man barks that they are not to be disturbed. Haddock scoffs, any hotel worth their salt would know when its rooms were being used for illicit coupling, this man’s needless suspicion does not bode well for his character.</p><p>There is an alleyway to the right side of the hotel, overflowing basins of rubbish maligned to dark recesses, and hidden within Haddock locates a rickety old fire escape. He had never worried about his weight, in fact often grateful for the how it allowed him leverage in situations requiring physical problem-solving, but now he curses it as the metal shudders, threatening to send him plummeting if he treats it too unkindly. With caution he ascends to the third floor.</p><p>On the landing the door is understandably locked, but this avenue is not a dead end for the window next to it has the blinds open, light flooding out into the night. Haddock fishes a spyglass from inside his pocket, a heavy and stout object optimal for the anticipated game of close quarters spying. He focuses it on the light, tries to make out if it leads to a hallway, and is instead brought to his destination earlier than expected. Haddock swallows thickly, grips the spyglass tighter so he does not lose the sight in front of him. Pinned as a voyeur he cannot escape, even if his common sense, the part that knows the irrationality of his heart, screams for him to flee. </p><p>There is Tintin with his unmistakable burnished hair. The youth is bent over on the floor on hands and knees, wrists and ankles bound in thick rope, and the angle of his back presented like a glistening snow-covered mountain slope. The Spanish man kneels to the side, strokes down Tintin’s back appreciatively, before standing and releasing a crop tucked at his hip and lays a swift slap to Tintin’s exposed skin. He cannot hear through the glass, but Haddock feels as if he too were struck as Tintin yells, unhindered and wild, frame quaking with the impact as the crop hits again and again in quick succession, painting a hatch of garish red and Haddock has seen enough. He climbs onto the railing’s edge, gripping with all his strength he swings forward and uses the spyglass to smash into the window. Then he is jumping, catches the windows sill, and throws himself through the hole he previously made. Glass pierces his hands, sticks into his clothes, but all he can focus on are the two shocked faces, one gasping and still red-faced, the other now snarling at him and stalking forward.</p><p>Haddock lunges as the Spanish man ducks and dives for his ankles, he tries to pivot from the assault, but without success as he is yanked down onto his back, howling as he lands, skull hits the hardwood and he sees stars. Hands fly up and grasp, finding purchase in the man’s short hair bringing him hurtling down so they are locked together, tussling and straining.</p><p>“General, stop!” Haddock’s head snaps, quick enough to glimpse Tintin by their side (how did he get out of the ropes?) face stained with distress. The General takes the lapse in Haddock’s concentration to slam Haddock’s head into the floor again, Haddock groans, aborted by a fist slamming into his cheek. He tastes copper.</p><p>Then a resounding crack and the weight above him is gone. The pain welds his eyes shut, but he hears Tintin addressing this General:</p><p>“If you lay another finger on this man I’ll never speak to you again. I think this evening’s excitement has run its course. We’re leaving.”</p><p>There is a growl of defiance, but no resistance from the General as Haddock is lifted, so his arm is slung over Tintin’s shoulder. He clutches at the boy more than he should, as if he can find security and protection there. Tintin is strong and steadfast as they make their way down to the lobby.</p><p>“Mr. Zarate in room 308 has sustained a minor head injury if you could please send someone up to tend to him. Thank you,” Tintin states with unquestionable confidence and then with disarming gentleness: “Just hold on a little bit longer, Captain. I’ve got you.”</p><p>There is a car. A woman’s worried voice waved away. A staircase. A bed. Cool cloth wiping at the now dried blood on his face. Clothes are removed and a comment about the awful amount of glass. Cold metal picking at his hands before they are rubbed with a sort of balm. Then the blanket pulled up to his neck and the last thing Haddock feels before slipping into full unconsciousness is the gentle press of lips against his own.</p><p>The next morning Haddock awakes to fuzzy memories and head still throbbing. He moans through a dry mouth and rolls over to nuzzle further into the pillow, seeking sleep that will mask the discomfort. However, at the contact, Haddock’s eyes fly open, knocked into full wakefulness by the unfamiliarity of texture and smell. The pillow is flat and thin, rough in comparison to the high thread counts of Marlinspike’s linens, but the scent envelops him in a different sort of comfort. It all smells of Tintin. He moans again and gathers the pillow up, as if the lad himself were there and he could hide his embarrassment in his body. The events of the night before click into place.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” </p><p>Haddock grunts and continues to lay face down even as a hand strokes the top of his head. He is not prepared to answer the question.</p><p>Tintin persists. “I’ve brought some water if you would please try and drink it.”</p><p>“Don’t look at me. I’ve made a spectacle of myself yet again.”</p><p>“Hm, yes, you do that quite often don’t you?”</p><p>Haddock does raise his head then, hoping his gaze comes across as withering instead of desperate. Tintin is unperturbed and holds out the glass of water. The morning sun frames him in an angelic halo. He looks none the worse for wear; Haddock notes there are no friction burns on his wrists. He wonders what Tintin’s back looks like, if the youth can still feel the sting from the General’s treatment last night, but is too accustomed to the shroud he weaves to care. Haddock wonders how much Tintin charges to leave marks on his pretty skin.</p><p>It’s none of his business.</p><p>“I think,” he says with uncharacteristic deliberateness, “I should go home. I have some work to do.”</p><p>Tintin blinks, surprised. “I’d prepared for us both to take the day off.”</p><p>“I don’t need to be coddled. I’m not a child.”</p><p>A hand rubs the back of Tintin’s neck in clear embarrassment. “No, no, I’m quite aware of that. Well then if you are leaving, here.” He pulls out Haddock’s clothes neatly folded and hands them over, turning his back to Haddock, pointedly allowing him privacy to dress. The dejected slump in Tintin’s shoulders tears at Haddock’s heart, but he knows separation is for their own good. Tintin doesn’t understand. The lad is too used to men who jump in and out of his life with ease. If they stayed here together Haddock might swallow him up whole and drown him. To top it all off Haddock knows he is an irredeemable brute; he had shown his true self in clear terms last night, in all his churlish glory. Haddock will not allow the boy he loves to make irresponsible decisions.</p><p>Tintin bites at his knuckles. “I pulled all the glass I could out of them and washed them as well.”</p><p>“Thank you,” is all Haddock can say. He finishes dressing with an audible clink of the belt buckle. Tintin turns back, purses his lips with disappointment, before gathering up satchel and moving to throw on his jacket.</p><p>“Please drink the water,” he says. “Come Snowy.” The dog emerges from underneath the bed. Haddock cannot resist a pat to the head which Snowy returns with exuberant licking of his finger tips before bounding to join his master in the doorway. Tintin is paused, as if he is pondering asking something, but unsure as to the propriety of doing so.</p><p>Haddock sighs and against his better judgement says: "I’ll call on you.”</p><p>At home he places a call to his old friend Captain Chester. He spins a tale of how too long on land has left him with a nasty case of wanderlust and he flounders without command of a ship, without purpose. Chester chuckles, cracks a jab of how he’d always known Haddock could not stay away from the sea, wasn't cut out for being a hoity-toity aristocrat, but just his luck there is an emergency vacancy for a commission in a few weeks time. It is a fairly straightforward affair, a cargo haul to South Africa and back, a total of three months taking into account several days at multiple ports along the way. Haddock agrees, thanks his friend, and hopes that is enough time to curb the obsession for a certain red-headed Belgian. Then, maybe when he returns, they can be friends again. Real friends.</p>
<hr/><p>Haddock still wants, how could he not, when presented with delicate pink lips and tantalizing skin, but the fires of the flesh are easily stoked, what he finds in Tintin’s mind, in the flow of companionship is new. He dare not risk losing it. Especially when Tintin appears to have forgiven him for the fiasco with the General. Haddock feels he is on thin ice.</p><p>“Do you not want me?” Tintin whines, drawing away from an especially fervent embrace, where he had coerced Haddock into the restaurant’s locked bathroom where kisses could be accompanied by urgent rock of clothed needy bodies.</p><p>Haddock expected this moment, they always reached it, but since that morning he woke up naked in Tintin’s bed the level of the boy’s propositioning had transformed into what could only be described as pleading. Using all his strength Haddock pushes Tintin off him, smoothes the boy’s hair in apologetic affection, and fishes into his pocket to procure separate cab money for them both.</p><p>“I wouldn’t make you pay me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t want your money if that’s what worries you. I just want to please you.” Tintin proclaims, and sinks to his knees as a final punctuation He tugs at the edge of Haddock’s pants, and the whole thing is ludicrous, but, despite his excessive over-thinking, Haddock's self-control has been fraying. He remembers that he will be shipping out in two days.</p><p>“Not in this filth,” he says quickly, before his brain can renege, and drags Tintin to standing and the beaming smile he receives makes his heart flip.</p>
<hr/><p>“Your house is wonderful.” Through the green front doors Tintin exalts at the fine furniture and art, sparkling marble and sprawling rooms.</p><p>“It’s not my house. Barely been here more than a year.”</p><p>“Oh, but it is your house from toe to tip. Look! Here’s the spot starting to wear where you always scrape your boots against the threshold. And everything’s got that smell of your favorite tobacco. Here’s the dining chair you use most left slightly further from the table. It’s waiting for you. And outside I could tell exactly which bedroom was yours, because the windows were open, and I saw how all the pillows were piled on one side of the  bed so you could pretend it was the smaller size you’re used to at sea.”</p><p>“You’re a single-minded fellow.”</p><p>“I’ve been told it’s both my best and worst quality.”</p><p>Their brisk walk through of the first floor culminates in the study and Haddock is tired of reviewing the rooms he sees daily. Much more enamored by the sight before him, TIntin finds himself backed up against the wall, and the Captain’s hands already charting the lines of his torso.</p><p>“I’m not so sure,” Haddock breathes against his ear. “I’d say for your ‘best’ quality there’s plenty of competition.”</p><p>Tintin allows himself to be lifted as they kiss, all swift tongues and eager lips, and carried to the bedroom where Haddock drops him lightly on the bed. Tintin removes his clothes with expedient speed and spreads out like a starfish for Haddock’s perusal. The boy licks his lips, waiting for a reaction.</p><p>“We’ve got all night,” Haddock chastises with a hint of uncertainty, as if he is questioning the statement the moment it is spoken. </p><p>“And I want you now.” Tintin sits up and drags Haddock down. He places his hands on Tintin’s hips, skin he has never felt before, and he stews in the sensation as Tintin licks at the base of his throat and trails a hand down to where Haddock has started to harden from their earlier passionate kissing. Tintin knows exactly what Haddock wants and he is giving it to him. Too easily. Too quickly. Too <em> practiced </em>. </p><p>Haddock wants to make Tintin feel good as well, but he is trapped by indecision as the boy plays him like a fiddle and his own arousal surges against where he throttles it with thought. What can he do that would be novel, that would make Tintin cry out in a way he does not for other men, that Tintin will remember as special among the endless trysts? An escort of Tintin’s caliber has experienced and felt every form of lovemaking, of fucking, Haddock had even seen a snippet of it at the General’s hands. Now, Haddock cannot proceed if he is uncertain this will mean something to Tintin as well, beyond sating the boy’s ardent overtures of lust and fulfilling an occupational desire to please. Haddock cannot bear the thought of being just another John who takes.</p><p>“What’s the matter?”</p><p>Haddock tries to divert with another kiss, but Tintin pushes him firmly away, determination hard in his eyes.</p><p>“Are you having second thoughts?”</p><p>“Now would hardly be the time for that.” The words are to assure himself as much as the boy.</p><p>“I agree.” Nimble hands are unbuttoning Haddock’s trousers and taking him into hand. “I very much want to make you feel good. Won’t you let me?”</p><p>It is too much.</p><p>“Tintin. Can you . . . stop touching me for a minute.”</p><p>Thankfully, Tintin obliges and Haddock drops his head to the boy’s chest, hoping the contact is enough apology, rallying himself. If Tintin does not touch him, if this is not about his own pleasure (as much as he devoutly wishes to revel in that place) then he can be assured he is not like those other men. He starts to plant kisses along Tintin’s sternum, travels up to the hollow of his ear where he laps enough to make Tintin quiver and grind his hips up against Haddock’s causing them both to moan.</p><p>“If you come up here I'll let you fuck my mouth.” Tintin whispers and the drop of the single vulgarity sends chills down Haddock’s spine. How many times has Tintin said those words before? Haddock abruptly sits back on his heels.</p><p>“I can’t do that.”</p><p>“You can’t? Or you won’t?” Tintin is growing distinctly frustrated, brow furrowing where a sheen of sweat has grown from his arousal, breath coming in impatient huffs.</p><p>They stare at each other. Tension vibrates and envelops them like a twisted net. Haddock hopes it will finish choking him. This is a pain of his own making and yet he cannot banish it. He sees the rest of the evening warp from something wonderful, laid out in front of him in sinister form: Tintin will be offended when he cannot explain himself, Tintin will think him a terrible disappointment, and Tintin will leave.</p><p>“Captain, I have an idea. Sit on the edge of the bed and turn away from me.”</p><p>Haddock does as instructed. He has nothing else to lose.</p><p>“Imagine you’re on your ship,” Tintin’s voice continues out of his line of sight. “Any ship. Whatever creaking, stinking tub-”</p><p>“My ship is not a tub!”</p><p>“Alright, it’s a perfectly fine ship. Best in the fleet. But this time you do not enjoy the voyage. You are melancholy, perhaps tonight you are drunk, trying to seek solace in the bottle to curb your loneliness.”</p><p>“If you keep talking like that I will have to do just that.”</p><p>Tintin ignores Haddock’s grumbling. “And then,” he continues, hands slip on Haddock’s shoulders from behind, warm torso presses into his back. “What’s this? A stranger has fallen through your porthole. What do you think of this stowaway?”</p><p>“I think he’s a vision sent to tempt me.”</p><p>Tintin spins himself to fall into Haddock’s lap.</p><p>“There will be nothing on your conscience. No consequences. The boy will be gone in the morning, running off wherever he wants, to hunt down whoever he wants, but for now he’s in your cabin, because he aches for you. Can you deny him?”</p><p>Tintin runs a thumb across Haddock’s cheekbone and he gazes up at the boy who owns him, neurosis and all.</p><p>“Not on my life.”</p><p>“Then, Archibald Haddock, lie back and let me have you as I want.”</p><p>Tintin presses Haddock down with his finger tips, feather light, but commanding and Haddock is useless to resist. As his body shifts so has the mood, Tintin’s roleplay falls away and they are no longer strangers yet Tintin has worked a sort of magic for they are different than the men who walked in the door an hour earlier. Haddock is no longer the Master of Marlinspike Hall, man of stature and ownership, he is simply Archibald Haddock, a man who can and will give himself completely. Tintin is no longer the escort who by position is expected to submit himself to the desires of his companion.</p><p>Tintin leans forward, knees bracketing Haddock’s thighs he braces himself on the bed and as he reaches behind himself. There is so much smooth skin, so close, Haddock thinks a lesser man would have already thrown himself upon the lad. Instead he reverentially runs his hands along the lines of Tintin’s body, the electricity he feels sits under the surface ready to erupt. He entices shivers from the youth as thumbs dip along inner thighs. Tintin’s fingers are working himself steadily now; hot breaths land on Haddock’s cheek.</p><p>“Give it to me.”</p><p>So Haddock does and Tintin is exponentially grateful, writhing with each thrust and crying out with words begging so vehemently Haddock is astounded he ever thought Tintin only wanted this to please him, or because he was an easy target for primal urges. Consciously or not, his lover does not let him forget that it is not just sex he wants, that Haddock's body beneath him is intrinsic to Tintin's pleasure. <em> Captain, Captain, Captain! </em> The cries only serve to push Haddock further, thrusting faster to wring those marvelous sounds out, until his own orgasm takes him by surprise and he is shooting deep within the youth who clings to him and pumps his own cock until he finishes in the space between. Haddock kisses him through the aftershocks as Tintin squirms desperately as if he does not touch Haddock with every part of his body he will perish. When they have both softened and Tintin is limp and languorous in his arms, taken to leisurely exploration of Haddock’s mouth, he pulls the youth down to lie beside him. They are a mess, but neither can be bothered to separate for long enough to clean. They fall asleep wrapped up together as if it were second nature.</p><p>The morning Haddock wakes up the bed is empty, but his initial panic is assuaged by a note brought to him by Nestor.</p><p><em> Gone home to take care of Snowy and then off to work. Apologies for leaving so abruptly, but I have a small on location assignment. I should be back by the end of the week. Let’s meet again as soon as possible. - </em> <em> Tintin </em></p><p>The paper cracks where he grips it. When he took Tintin to bed, Haddock had known there was  a ship and a crew waiting for him and a three month voyage ahead, but he had not known there would be no time to say goodbye.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>click that Subscribe button up tops to be notified for updates. Comments and kudos very much appreciated if you can! The more interest I get in this story the faster I'll be motivated to work on it!</p><p>Follow me on <a href="www.augustinremi.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> or <a href="www.twitter.com/seccotines">Twitter</a>.</p><p>Also, shoutout to the Haddotin discord server for your support.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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